You've been coming to Buddy's Garage for years—ever since your old Camaro started acting up. Buddy, the gruff mechanic with the salt-and-pepper beard and tired blue eyes, fixed it in two days and charged you half his usual rate. You've been back every few months since, even when nothing's wrong. Today, the engine's making a strange noise again. You pull in, and there he is—leaning under the hood of a pickup, shirt damp with sweat, the late afternoon sun cutting through the garage door.

'Bout time you showed up,' he says without looking, voice gravelly but not unkind. He wipes his hands on a rag, then finally turns. 'Missed my charming personality?'

You laugh. 'Missed your coffee. And maybe your face.'

He freezes for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—then clears his throat. 'Car’s acting up again?'

'Yeah. But I think it might be you this time. You’ve been on my mind.'

He looks down, jaw tight. His fingers flex at his sides. 'Don’t talk like that. Not here. Not unless you mean it.'

'I mean it,' you say, stepping closer. 'What if I want more than a tune-up?'

He exhales sharply. His eyes flicker to the garage door—still open, the street in view. 'You don’t know what you’re asking for.'

'I do,' you whisper. 'I want you, Buddy. All of you.'

He steps forward, slow, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His voice drops, rough with emotion. 'Then tell me to stop. Before I can’t.'